


An Assassin, A Mentor

by Enchantedtalisman



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Pre Relationship, Pre-Canon, no sex yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantedtalisman/pseuds/Enchantedtalisman
Summary: Feeling uneasy has never been a good thing for Desmond. It was that feeling that happened right before his first broken bone from a sparring match (a blow that was too fast because his father was fighting a kid not an adult). The moment when an Assassin that was this side of creepy passing by. An assortment of memories and feelings and experiences pass through Desmond's mind in an instant when that discomfort starts in the back of his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So much happened the last week, and I apologize to anyone who's waiting for other chapters to other stories, I didn't have much time to write with the whole Grandpa-funeral and familial drama I had to deal with for the past week and let me tell you going through security in an airport while knowing your mom speaks arabic and you sometimes forget to speak in english and having anxiety--all very stressful.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic, I only have three chapters before I stopped writing it a few months ago but that was more because I just had so many fics I wanted to work on this went on the backburner, I can't promise when I'll finish re-writing the second and third chapter or if this fic will be complete but also, I enjoy this fic so I'm posting it.
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> (also please do not comment with condolences for my grandfather, while the intention is appreciated, I actually didn't like the man at all so I'm neutral about most of the funeral tbqh, if you do comment please be kind thank you! )

Feeling uneasy has never been a good thing for Desmond. It was that feeling that happened right before his first broken bone from a sparring match (a blow that was too fast because his father was fighting a _kid_ not an _adult_ ). The moment when an Assassin that was this side of _creepy_ passing by. An assortment of memories and feelings and experiences pass through Desmond's mind in an instant when that discomfort starts in the back of his mind.

So, he's wary. A little nervous but not too afraid--after all he's survived three years on his own out of the Farm. Avoiding Templar's and Assassin's alike. Beating the odds, considering most of his schooling was...outside of the regular curriculum.

Most days the stripper poles aren't up until six pm, only the bar, and kitchen are open right now. Desmond's never asked if the restaurant portion is meant as a cover or not. Each pole isn't exactly discreet and the strippers or "dancers" as his boss calls them, aren't very covert either.

After a year of working here it isn't hard to let his gaze slide over skin and barely contained bulges like it's just a rather boring picture in the background. He stretches his senses a little-- _eagle vision_ , the documents called it, the only proof that this shit is real, but everything is a soft blue--no danger then. But his senses are still on high alert and he gets more than one admonishment for his scowl from a burly costumer. He ignores them with a fake politeness that's practiced.

The first hour of his shift isn't too busy, slow at the start but it picks up a little bit around fifteen minutes in. He prefers the shifts where he can't think about going to home to an empty apartment and counting the days until he has to move again. He's been forcably moved four times before he became more diligent--this year of work has been the longest since an Assassin or a Templar has found him.

Eventually his sixth sense increases in awareness to a point that Desmond realizes he is _standing in front of_ the man that's pinging his sixth sense and it soon reaches it's peek (a high pitched eagle screech that he's pretty sure only he can hear, and that still to this day makes adrenaline pump through his system immediately).

The man smile at him is sharp, and full of charm. Light brown eyes, a distinctive space between the edge of his right brow where a scar crosses his skin.

Desmond knows better than to freeze and yet he still does. His stomach flips because of that smile. Cocky and self sure. Just like his first trainer when he was five (not that he _knew_ at the time, just that he really liked the man).

"Any chance you have a rum and coke around here?" He asks with a little smirk rising. It shouldn't look as good as it does.

Desmond really should distract, and get out. The screeching has thankfully stopped but he knows better. His eagle senses wouldn't be informing of this man if he wasn't either important or dangerous or both. _But then again_ , _it's how I got my job._ Starting out as a pole dancer and then working his way to bartender had been difficult but not as bad as some of the hires considering his body is pretty damn flexible and pretty.

"We have that," Desmond internally winces at the stupid reply; _of course we have it, Desmond, we are a bar and strip joint._ He barely refrains from rolling his eyes at himself and turns around to find a chilled bottle of coke and the dark rum they tend to use with coke.

"You ever work the poles?" The man asks when Desmond turns around, drink in hand.

Desmond pauses. Stares at the man. Usually because of his appearance, men don't hit on him so blatantly. He's got a scar on his lip that still looks red even though it's been four years (it had been deep, a knife wound that had almost ruined his lips but Assassin's were good at first aid) and an aura that leaves most men from opening their mouths and propositioning him. But he's _pretty_ enough that men still tip him and eye him up like candy.

Flattered shouldn't be the first thing Desmond feels. But damn if he doesn't feel flattered. Cocky, sure of himself, _and_ not scared to make a first move, even if it's...not the greatest pick up line. Desmond wonders if he needs to get laid more if this is doing it for him.

"Sometimes," Is out of Desmond's mouth before he means it to be. Well, _shit_ , clearly his dick is thinking for him. _But it could be a good thing_ , is still running through the back of his mind so he _hopes_ for once that it's not an Assassin and _definitely_ not a Templar.

That smirk again, and the man says, cheer filling his voice, "Jacob, Jacob Frye, who are you lovely?"

"Desmond..."Usually he doesn't use Miles, but that same sixth sense that cried out earlier is urging him onwards, so he says with a stutter in his voice, "M-miles, Desmond Miles."

Jacob's eyes light up and his whole face shines in a way that makes him even more handsome if at all possible. "Pleasure to meet you." He offers a cool slightly wet, from the chilled glass of rum, hand.

Desmond takes it and notes almost unconsciously the callouses which imply work, and a few cuts that could imply anything from Assassin to Carpenter. A strong grip, and the peek of skin between glove and hand implies muscle. He shakes himself, his senses are giving him a _positive_ push forwards, being paranoid isn't going to help him. He almost lost this job from not trusting his sense last time. "Same, I guess." Desmond says and barely bites back a chuckle when Jacob a hand above his heart.

"My sister would say I deserve that response. But _me?_ Personally I think you owe me a date." Jacob says with so much vigor that Desmond finds it hard to even _think_ the word _no_.

"Alright--" Desmond agrees with a wiry smile and then is distracted by several calls. By the time he finally has a moment to catch his breath, Jacob is gone, disappointingly, and Desmond continues his night shift with a lackluster finish.

  


No proper lunch tonight, not when it's so busy, but Desmond still takes a fifteen. Get out of the bar to stretch his legs, disappointment still ringing inside of him; even though he _knows_ his luck with dating. Relationships just never last long when you're always paranoid and still keep knives in your damn clothes. At least most people don't like it. He gets out of the back of the bar, into the small parking lot/alley and isn't expecting a person sitting out near the other building's wall. Tensing, and palming one of the several throwing knives he keeps in his work clothes, Desmond readies himself.

"Was wondering when you would be let off." A familiar voice says, and Desmond's eyes adjust to the light, there is Jacob smoking a cigarette and smiling around the tip.

"Thought you ditched me." Desmond fires back, and swipes the cigarette and inhales in one deep breath. His lungs aren't used to it--he doesn't smoke, not often at least, and it's only _partially_ because his trainers were right about the effect of smoking on his body. He likes having a fit Assassin forged body, not only because it lets him be _very flexible_ , but because he can run across rooftops, climb almost anything, and do a lot of other shit, and smoking isn't a good way to keep that body.

Right now, though? It's worth it to see Jacob's gobsmacked expression. Which quickly turns into a wide grin, "Look at you, the rebel." He teases and instead of taking back the cigarette he leans forward intention quite clear and presses a kiss against Desmond's lips. The smoke doesn't really blow into Jacob's so much as Desmond is still surprised and his lips part.

Sweet and teasing, a brief taste of Jacob's tongue, nicotine, before Jacob pulls away. This time he does take the cigarette with a barely there quick movement brush of fingers against fingers, "Bad for a young lad's health, mate."

"I am not _that_ young." Desmond rolls his eyes but his cheeks still feel a little hot. He hasn't had a lot of men over the years and it's still a bit of a novel feeling being appealing. On the Farm there were nudges for arranged marriages but nothing like dating.

"Hmm, young enough." Jacob replies and breathes in one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it under a boot. His hand fumbles at his belt.

Desmond tenses again, just a little, his fingers going back for his throwing knife, at this close it probably won't hold up to a real dagger but it would give him some time. Barely a second later he feels ridiculous when all that happens is Jacob pulls out a card.

A card that he gives to Desmond. With a phone number. And his name. Embossed. Fancy.

 _Please don't be a sugar Daddy_. Desmond thinks fiercely, "Oh," Desmond stares at the card between his fingers, and looks up at Jacob, "Huh."

"That kiss wasn't just a tease, lad." Jacob says with good humor.

Actually Desmond is sure that the man has been joyful this entire time, he hopes it's not a constant, he doesn't think he can deal with that much cheer all the time. No matter how much part of him does like the appeal of such a piece of sunlight around him. It would be a change from what he had to deal with on the Farm.

Desmond pulls out his phone to add the number in--with his damn luck he will forget it in the Bar's 'locker room'. "I'll call you." He says.

"Good, I will expect you then." Jacob leans in and Desmond is ready this time for the kiss, it's sweet and chaste and somehow turns out just as unexpected.

"Do you enjoy frustrating people?' Desmond mutters licking his lips and missing Jacob's tongue.

With a cheeky wink, Jacob nods towards the door to the bar-where Desmond's coworker is giving him a thumbs up sign. "I think your break is over."

"Probably." Desmond sighs, lifts his phone, and points it at Jacob, "I'll text you after work."

"Please do." Jacob says and he's gone by the time Desmond looks back out, and he barely refrains from using his eagle vision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clap your hands if you've been fatigued for the last week _clap clap_
> 
> But, I've been trying to push through and write. You can tell it's going _great_. But hey I got some things written at least. Expect some Henry/Jacob fic in the future if I can figure out how long I want that one to be.
> 
> Enjoy~

Desmond doesn't actually text Jacob. He's not...familiar with this. This whole relationship thing, or well _dating_. He's had sex, had flings and even a mixed bag that he pretends never happened (it got messy fast, the knives weren't the only problem).

Clearly from the way Jacob was eyeing Desmond up, he doubts it's a one time thing. Maybe it's intuition, or spending enough time around his some-what friends, coworkers, or his eagle vision but he knows that it will become more, could become more.

Stalling. Desmond stalls. He works out in a familiar routine that starts with stretches that would make any non-gymnast wince, leg's spread wide, arms pressed to the floor behind him and chest arched up and out. After are the push ups, the crunches, running around his block, and a dozen passes as 'stealth'training where he pickpockets a few of the rich business men. (Those training sessions are always the ones that have to be done sporadically because he _lives_ about five miles near the city he picked)

A day passes, two, three. The phone number is still right there, inside his wallet. Even though he has it saved on his phone. Desmond stares at it a lot. Gets distracted, gets yelled at by his Boss (a first, but he _really_ didn't mean to spill that liquor on David's crotch okay?), and has to say he's leaning towards tearing up the card and deleting it out of his phone. Really.

It's just...

That kiss? The one that Jacob gave him? Chaste and sweet? It wasn't like the first one. He wants _both_. He's...never really wanted small simple kisses before. Never had the urge to spend time with someone for more than several hours.

Antonio, his first Assassin Mentor, had been around constantly and Desmond hadn't realized until later what his childhood crush was. His second crush was an older Assassin that had died before that crush had even been fully realized. After the Farm? No proper relationships. Not with full disclosure and honesty at least.

But his Eagle Senses are definitely urging his muddled feelings forward.

So, on a Friday, a week and a half after meeting Jacob, Desmond sits on his ratty couch and spins his phone between his fingers. Pausing every few seconds to hover a thumb over the phone number. "It's just a god damn phone call, Desmond." He tells himself. Staring at the number. It's not for this area code, but Desmond doesn't think it's out of country.

Without thought his thumb presses down. Desmond swallows tightly and listens to the dialing tone.

No one picks up which is...a relief and frustrating all at once. As tempting as it is to throw his phone into his apartment wall, he refrains. His checks are pretty decent, but not good enough to replace a cellphone he's spent several years upgrading and working around any possible tech tampering.

"Leave a Message, it's Jacob." The phone says.

Desmond pauses and exhales away from the phone, "J-Jacob. It's Desmond..." A few poor lines cross his mind before he settles on, "Want to meet me after work? I only work till seven tonight." One of the few times he only had a five hour shift. "I'll be waiting." He winces, that sounds slightly desperate, but he ends the call before he can say anything else.

A glance at the clock shows it's only noon, two hours until he has to go to work and he decides the best way to distract himself is more exercise. "Desmond, you are an idiot." He tells himself and throws his phone onto the couch.

  


Work that day is difficult, Desmond's made more mistakes in the last three hours than in the last four months. At least his Boss isn't reaming him out--though it's obviously costing her something to _not_. He takes a fifteen just to get his shit together.

"Jacob will either be here or he won't. Calm your shit." Desmond tells his reflection in the bathroom mirror; having checked the whole room to make sure he's alone.

Pep talks aren't really Desmond's thing. So, it's no surprise it does very little for his level of calm. But he does lock his emotions down-one of the few perks of his type of childhood rearing. He gets back to work and finally has his coworkers stop looking at him as if he's going to bring down the roof.

Seven O' clock comes too soon and not soon enough. Jacob's not inside by the time Desmond finishes cleaning the bar for the next bartender, and he reins in his immediate impulse to use his Eagle Senses. That would be pretty damn creepy, even Desmond figures that out. It would cross a line to use it on a civilian for purposes that don't do with protection or self defense.

Shaking his head, Desmond swipes his towel one last time over the counter, and heads to the back. Normally he just heads out, but he had _hoped_ for more, and so he actually has a spare set of clothes for a quick shower and change. Not a single person inside means no one is about to ask Desmond _why_ he's taking a shower now. He feels his cheeks turn hot even at the thought of the inquisition.

With speedy movements Desmond has his clothes on the floor in front of his locker, a towel on his arm, and a hurried pace to the shower. He scrubs quickly, especially down below, and under his pits, and he's just drying when his Eagle Senses start pinging. "Fuck off." He mutters. This might be the third time his Eagle Senses have reacted while he is in a compromising position. Though at least this time it's not while he's taking a literal shit.

Unlike the first time he doesn't bother going for more than his shoes, underwear, and pants. He barely has his underwear on, shoes on his feet, and pants under one arm before he _feels_ enemies coming closer. "Shit!" Working here is nice, and he's going to miss it. Desmond shakes that thought from his head and heads towards the back door away from the edging red in his mind's eye.

Eagle Vision is pretty damn good at telling him where and when his enemies are coming but unfortunately he's not good enough to tell who exactly is within his visions radius. From what he learned on the Farm, while sneaking around, other's were able to tell exactly _who_ was chasing them, but Desmond has never quite achieved that ability.

Just outside the door of the bar a hand grips him so quickly that Desmond has an unbearable moment of panic. His Eagle Senses have never failed him even if they aren't advanced, he's _always known_ when someone dangerous was nearby.

"Calm down, mate, it's just me. Mate, no one is going to get you."

Gets through Desmond's head and he inhales sharply and focuses on the face in front of him. And carefully pulls back his fingers from the man's other hand. His fingers were going straight for the soft tissue between hip and chest and at least even while panicked his body is ready to defend himself. It's Jacob though, Desmond realizes once he's calmed enough, _Jacob_ , "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" He _looks_ towards the front of the bar and is relieved when he sees the red-humanoid shapes. Not safe, but not in complete danger just yet.

"There you are," Jacob says with a smile that is unfairly attractive. He doesn't even seem upset about Desmond trying to claw his stomach open with his fingers.

Desmond scowls at him and let's his pants unfold and scrambles into them, after toeing off his shoes.

"Hmm, shame, you look good in those boxer briefs. Very tight." Jacob says.

Heat covers Desmond's shoulders and he's relived that his skin is too dark to see a blush easily. He can imagine all the things Jacob would say if he saw Desmond blushing, and it's a damn good thing Desmond is wearing jeans. Getting half-hard in front of his...sort of crush? Is too much on top of everything else. "You--," Desmond tugs on his shoes awkwardly, and glances around with his Eagle Vision one more time to make sure they're alone (why _is_ Jacob gold? He's never seen gold before...not even his boss had been gold, just a very vibrant blue that had turned slightly yellow at the edges--but he knows that the color is special, if he could remember _why_ that would help), "Didn't answer, why are you here?"

"Was waiting for you." Jacob says which- _why in the back of the bar_ , but he's already taking Desmond's arm and leading him up some rickety fire-escape stairs. "Come on, this way."

Which, not a lot of options, and at least Jacob isn't _red_.

Desmond follows on quick steps and is a little--okay, a _lot_ impressed with the agility of Jacob. The man has to be least in his forties but he moves like he is still in his twenties.

In a matter of minutes they are on a rooftop and then. Then, Jacob _leaps_ across the space between the two rooftops--it's only a couple of feet but Desmond knows how hard it is to not fuck that up.

"Come on, Desmond." Jacob calls.

Desmond shakes his head, the _wait wait let's talk about this_ , urge is intense, but the prickling feeling of enemies is pushing him forward. He has a shit ton of questions, but his Eagle Senses for once are _not helping_. He is going to get his answers, even if his Senses aren't cooperating with his lack of knowledge. So he jumps, almost too easily he reaches the other side, "Wait!"

But, Jacob is already running. Even wearing a suit that looks more appropriate a hundred years ago, the man jumps and skids across the rooftops with a grace that's enviable.

"God dammit." Running to catch up, Desmond doesn't want to admit how much enjoyment he gets out of this. He hasn't played a game of rooftop tag in years, and Jacob is _good_. "Too good." He gasps out when he skids, lands on his back and rolls to a stop ten rooftops away from the bar--at least two of them had taken some finesse because America loved their uneven building sizes.

"What was that?" Jacob asks, turning around from surveying their retreat.

Desmond looks up and catches Jacob's eyes--and...shit, "Your eyes. They glow." He stares in awe. Even his father hadn't had Eagle Vision, the so called _Mentor_ of the Assassins. Almost all Mentors had Eagle Vision, hell most Assassins of old did, but their Farm had maybe two and Desmond had never actually met either of them.

"Ah," Jacob twirls on his heels, a finely made calf-high pair of boots, and rolls his hands, "Well, you see--"

"You, you!" Desmond doesn't know if he should be furious at Jacob or at himself. "A God damn Assassin. How the fuck did you find me?" He steps forward until Jacob is facing him again and presses a finger against his chest, "I am not going back, fuck you and fuck them, I can take you." Which is a _dumb_ thing to say but Desmond's sure he can handle a one on one fight, maybe not without injuries, but the Assassin's and Templar's have always wanted him alive.

"I'm not with the Assassins!" Jacob snaps, loudly, voice rising over Desmond's own vehement rant.

"Bullshit, you have Eagle Vision," Desmond fires back, his chest heaving with his still simmering anger. He's such a ridiculously naive boy. Life really does like to shit on him and right when things were going smoothly too. A stable place for so long had to fuck up sooner or later. Desmond _knows_ better than to let his dick do the thinking.

"A lot of people _could_ have eagle vision. Some Templars are recorded to have it too." Jacob snarks, then sees the surprise on Desmond's face and let's out a low chuckle, "Didn't you know? You have quite the bloodline Desmond. One of your forefathers switched sides and his father was an Assassin, his son too."

"How the hell do you know that?" Desmond had tried to find anything about his family lines. It had been mostly circumspect, no true evidence, nothing concrete. The most was something about a possible relation to Altair, but _everyone_ in the Assassin World claimed _some_ relation to Altair.

Rubbing a hand across his face and muttering too low for Desmond to hear, Jacob sighs and rolls his shoulders, "If I didn't know better I'd say you were related to me. Look, I know that because I was or am an Assassin--"

"See!" Desmond glares and bites his tongue when Jacob gives him a _look_.

"I consider myself an Assassin because that's what I was raised as and grew into. But I am not part of your Father's Brotherhood. He's a shit Mentor, sorry to break it to you." Jacob says regaining his flippant air as he continues speaking.

Desmond settles just a tad in his fears and panic at that; not a lot of people want to point out that William Miles is a bad leader. Even the Good Assassin's at the Farm left it alone. Rocking the boat in a Secret Organization when you were already being decimated, Desmond supposes.

"I even have proof, but I can't show you here." Jacob doesn't let Desmond voice his skeptical thoughts, quickly adding, "We shouldn't be out here anyway, with our luck both of us will be caught, and I am not a fan of being caught by the Templars again." The way he says it is genuine enough and Desmond can't _Sense_ any lies. So far.

Both men stare at eachother in silence. Their bodies still in a manner that is eerie. Eyes shining brightly with their _Eagle Vision_.

Desmond is the first to break his posture, his eyes fixed on Jacob's still. He doesn't want to admit that this stare off has left him half hard and with a heavy aching want inside of him. "I won't forgive you if you're lying." Desmond says finally. a really shitty come back, Desmond admits to himself, but he knows that even as a trained Assassin he's not sure if he could kill Jacob purely from an emotional standpoint rather than a physical or ability one. Defend himself? Sure, easy. He's done it since he was age ten, but killing a man that he has such an intense connection too? No.

Jacob gives him that charming grin and then grabs Desmond's hand, lacing their fingers together faster than Desmond can keep up, "Let's be on our way then." He says cheerfully.

Before Desmond can try to cut the bastard with his _Assassin's Blade_ , he's being dragged forward. He has to focus to jump, after all, he hasn't had to jump while holding onto someone or with someone in a very long time. He almost misses the next building but Jacob's lithe frame bellies his strength and with _one hand_ stops Desmond from falling and takes him back up the ledge.

"Bit rusty aren't you? Don't worry about that. I will train you just right, mate." A saucy wink and the way Jacob examines Desmond from head to foot implies more than just Assassin training.

Even with his anger banked, Desmond blushes and impulsively shoves Jacob forward, "Keep fucking going, you said you needed me to see something."

"Many things," Jacob retorts.

After that Jacob doesn't need to lead Desmond with his hand, because he's being chased across rooftops. Considering what lay behind them, and what may lead in front of Desmond, it's a rather good and adrenaline filled chase.

The wind whips around him, he moves in a way that's half familiar, remembering more and more the tricks that helped keep him from stumbling like he did earlier or rolling onto his back. The sight of the cars and people under them as his body for just a moment floats weightless in the air. Gravity reasserting itself against his belly and yet still landing on his feet in a crouch to minimize the aches and pains that the landing could cause.

Desmond _really_ hopes he doesn't regret following this man, chasing him over the buildings of this city.

Running long distances isn't exactly uncommon for Assassin Training, but Desmond rarely run this far, and has to take a few breathers. They have to be at least six miles from the bar by now.

Unfortunately, Jacob, for being older than Desmond, seems to handle all of the running, jumping and parkour without difficulty. Hell, for all Desmond knows the man might be a Master Assassin. Only a few of the Assassin's on the farm had the grace--the two who may have had Eagle Vision, the ones that didn't stay long or only stayed to teach the children before disappearing back into the outside world.

Jacob moves like a cat, flexing muscles and body bending as if it's pure muscle and cartilage rather than bone. He falls into rolls fluidly, lands on his feet more times then Desmond does by the time they have crossed half the City. Even after that he still seems to breathe easy, and when his labored breath starts he slows a little at a time before picking back up.

At the very least the whole experience is one of knowledge gained. Desmond doesn't really want to note it, but he's a trained Assassin, and noticing things is part of that title. Picking up things so obviously shown is also recognizable.

Jacob is teaching him _while_ leading him _and_ running away.

Frustration builds at that, because even Desmond's half remembered and slowly regained tricks aren't as fluid or good as the things Jacob is offering, but it also proves the man knows the Assassin parkour skill-set well. If he's this good at multi-tasking, and (more and more likely) a Master Assassin, well, Desmond would be dead if that's what Jacob wanted. If the man wanted something more nefarious it really wouldn't need all these hoops.

So, Desmond settles his anger and decides if whatever Jacob shows him isn't worth it he'll disappear. And thank Jacob for the tips. At least Desmond knows how much more he needs to work on his endurance, his jumping and roof running, and he's learned how to roll like a Master Assassin.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Writing is currently kicking my ass, not helped by my visit to my extended family fucking with my mental health-progress, so who knows when I'll be posting more fic or chapters. 
> 
> But, I'm still pushing forward cuz fuck if I'm gonna let my depression and anxiety send me into a pit of despair again (did that for several years, would not reccomend) so I'm gonna keep writing.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed ~<3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clap your hands if your anxiety is a bastard but you're still trying to go through your fanfics when you're feeling inspired.
> 
> I love Assassin's Creed, and I actually really like this chapter. Wait I take back the loving assassin's creed, I love some of the characters, I like some of the lore, but damn Ubisoft; suck less.

Finally, _finally_ they rest. Desmond leans against a wall, and then something solid and warm when he slides off it. Wherever this place is it's a wreck. And he's pretty sure they passed it twice.

The air is clearer and cleaner here at least. So Desmond gulps in the air gratefully and doesn't feel like he's inhaling more exhaust fumes than oxygen. Most of the housing here isn't actual skyscraper apartments or wide business towers but rather short one story buildings. Not as easy to jump to each one but it's still doable and at least the ground is _much_ closer.

Run down and a little broken in, this house is pretty far from the next one, at least a half a mile away. The trek on ground had been an odd shift but not an unwelcome one.

"We definitely need to work on your endurance." Jacob's voice is far, far, too close. Breath warm against Desmond's ear.

Desmond cringes on the inside-what the heck, even if he's dying on the inside from the run (his lungs feel like shriveled grapes and his heart is pounding a mile a minute) he should know better. He turns his head and frowns at a (very nice) carpet of chest hair. Traveling upwards, his eyes note the v of a collar bone that makes Desmond's mouth water and his palms sweat, the neck corded with muscle and blood pumping noticeably.

"I doubt you are a Vampire but I will let you bite me if you so desire." Jacob wicked smirk is back and wide.

Desmond sputters and tries to lift himself off the man, but he gets perhaps an inch of space between them before his overtaxed muscles fail him. His arms are literally shaking from the effort. "Fuckin'" He exhales because even speaking is too much.

Jacob's arms wrap around Desmond and he lifts Desmond up as if he isn't mostly compact muscle, "Looks like there won't be any biting right now, will there?" He laughs at the look Desmond throws his way and the brief feeble struggle that's given at the body-holding, "Just relax, love, I'll have you in a bed in no time."

There's not much Desmond can do but deal. His strength has all but given out and the only reassurance is that though he's half exhausted, Jacob's hands don't travel. A very small part of himself is disappointed but for the most part he's relieved. Too many revelations in such a short time has left him reeling and he needs time. And his bar back.

To figure out the next step, hopefully.

See if there's any chance of _them_ being a thing; hell, why does he still want the damn crazy lying bastard?

Desmond can't help a little sigh that escapes his lips, of course he's interested. The man's absolutely amazing, his abilities, his cocky attitude, his charm, and the ability to blend so well that even Desmond's Eagle Senses hadn't picked up on him until the man was inside and right in front of him. Even if he's an Assassin, at least he's a relatively honest one. For an Assassin.

When they reach a bedroom Desmond is half expecting it to be Jacob's, but no, it looks relatively clean and unused, at most a guest bedroom. A few throwing knives on the side table, a dagger, and an Assassin Blade. The Alloy doesn't look like the stainless steel that Desmond is familiar with.

"You never know when you'll be caught without a blade." Jacob admits and sets Desmond down onto the bed before carefully taking off his shoes. "I will gather some clothing after I make sure no one has followed us. Stay here." Jacob's tone, for the first time, turns stern and almost authoritative enough so that Desmond stays in place.

That tone is also familiar, if Jacob isn't or wasn't a Mentor, well, Desmond will eat his sweat soaked socks.

More importantly is how long Jacob takes to scout. At first it's fine, Desmond rests, it's not exactly like he can move, but after his nerves start to rise. How long would it take Desmond to scan the surroundings? Five minutes? Ten to twenty if he wants to be thorough?

That is definitely his nerves. He settles into the bed and takes one of the throwing knives nearby in hand; at least he can move his arms now without too much strain. His muscles spasm a little but not enough to _hurt_.

The knife won't do much against a gun, but maybe enough quick agility and Eagle Vision he might have the first strike or be able to distract an enemy. For now resting is all he can do. He has to conserve energy. "Dumb, Desmond, you know better than to use up all your strength like that." He mutters to himself.

But how could he not? When someone like Jacob appears in his life? A man who is clearly better than Desmond, someone who can teach him without even speaking. It's equal parts fascinating and infuriating. Not even his father could make him interested in competing as an Assassin, but here a stranger has caught his fire without even trying.

"Toofucking easy." Desmond scolds himself and then quiets.

There's a noise in part of the building. An almost inaudible creak.

Focusing tightly, the world _blooms_ around Desmond. White light at first, before a light golden tint and around him is...empty. No blue, no red, and no new-gold. Just an empty building and--stretching his senses isn't something he's proficient at but he's good enough to push himself a little further past the house. Nothing.

Desmond relaxes his tense fingers around the throwing knife. He pulls back his Eagle Senses, no need to strain himself further, but keeps it activated, and a hand carefully clasped around the knife. Dozing but staying just aware enough of the world around him has always been like slipping into a pool of water; easy and with almost no effort. One of the few skills that _supposedly_ all Eagle Assassins were able to do naturally.

Time passes without meaning to Desmond, all there is is the soft golden glow, the feel of the rough handle against his skin, and his slow deep breaths.

Finally, a soft glow appears at the edge of Desmond's 'vision' and Desmond snaps out of the doze, accidentally breaking his Eagle Sense-focus. But it doesn't matter, he already knows someone has landed in front of the door. He readies himself and tenses his aching muscles. Focusing on his Eagle Senses alludes him but he keeps trying even with his half open eyes on the closed door leading into this room.

Another creak, someone opening the front door, and footsteps--no, maybe? Desmond wants to relax at such light steps because Assassin's walk like that. But Jacob's words are still in his head _You had Ancestors who turned Templar_ , how many Assassins turn rogue? He can't relax not yet.

Throwing knife still in hand, Desmond waits just a moment longer. If it is an Assassin they won't immediately kill him. He has doubts Templars will either but he's not about to _risk_ it. Either way he should have _just_ enough time to use the knife as a distraction (perhaps he's a little too soft when it comes to the chance of his pursuers being Assassin's) and if need be he can go for a grapple if he can't escape.

A figure appears in the doorway and Desmond throws the knife before they can enter fully. The thunk of the knife actually startles them, and Desmond is up out of the bed on shaky legs in seconds.

"Oy! Mate, what the buggering fuck?" Jacob yells, and pulls the knife out of the wooden door frame.

Desmond pauses mid step towards the nearby window and stares. "I...I thought you were an Assassin or Templar." He ends the sentence with a yawn because apparently this day couldn't get any more humiliating. He's barely standing at this point and he feels a slight guilty pulse at how close he was to hurting Jacob. Sure the man's a bit of an ass but he helped him escape the Templars or Assassins or both following him.

Jacob shakes his head and slides the knife into his jacket. "At least you know not to cower and wait for back up. Better than most of the recent Assassin's from the States." He walks towards Desmond and then gently pushes him back onto the bed. "Come on, get some sleep. Jacob will make sure nothing happens to you."

Desmond falls onto the bed embarrassingly easily. His legs immediately feel better and his spine too. "Does," He yawns breaking up his snarky remark, "Jacob always talk in the third person?"

"Only around the pretty boys and girls." Jacob says dryly, and then pulls a blanket over Desmond. "Sleep, then we'll figure out how to get you the fuck away from the gnats swarming you. Templars _and_ Assassins. And a double agent..." Jacob shakes his head.

Desmond has no idea what that last sentence means, and he's far too concerned about the former. But sleep is pulling him in and he can't ask. Even if he _really_ needs to know. How had the Templars and Assassin's found him? What Double Agent? Did the Assassin's have a mole?

Most importantly, Desmond wanted to ask _why_. This strange, unknown, and possible Mentor-Master Assassin appearing for him? Part of him feels it's too good to be true.

"I am pretty and good. You have one of the best taking care of you." Jacob replies as if he can read Desmond's thoughts.

No, Desmond realizes he mumbled that bit out. He's already too deep to be more than fleetingly embarrassed and then he's asleep. Questions left unanswered, but his Eagle Senses humming with pleasure at Jacob's words. Once again, Desmond trusts those Senses. They haven't steered him wrong yet.

  
  


  
Desmond wakes tensed and checking for anything nearby. There's...there's someone near him? And he's not in his room. Or at the bar having slept off a bad night in the lockerroom (which only happened  _ Once  _ and wasn't a big deal, no matter what his Boss or coworkers had said about how quiet and scary he looked that night).

It takes far more time than Desmond would like to remember where he is. Where and who he's with. He also has an embarrassingly high tension moment where he has to try and remember if he _slept_ with Jacob or just...slept with Jacob.

No, Desmond hasn't slept with the attractive man, nor does he feel a bit of disappointment. More important is this _Double Agent_. The Templars that have somehow found him (was it because of the Double Agent?) Desmond knows so _little_ and it is _infuriating_.

"Oi, you're thinking far too hard when it's this early in the morning." Jacob mutters, pushing himself deeper into the bed.

"You can't be serious." Desmond hisses, poking Jacob in the side. "You want me to just go back to bed? Why are you even asleep? Why did you let me go to sleep?" He has no idea why he trusted the man. Clearly his Eagle Senses were wrong in their judgment. How could the man be asleep?!

There were Assassins and Templars out there. Who were expert hunters of eachother, and Desmond and Jacob were right here in a house without a single trap inbetween them and the door.

"Love, you worry too much." Jacob yawned, and stretched, peaking out from--when had he put on that old fashioned hat?--under his hat were those dark mischievous eyes of his. "I handled a few things. They think you hoped onto a train to Washington."

About to open his mouth and sputter out a _great plan, they will totally believe that,_ Desmond pauses. Washington? That is...actually some place Desmond would head too. If the Assassin's or Templars have found him this time they have to have figured out his methods. He picks the furthest place from where he currently lives and Washington is pretty damn far away. "That may work." Desmond admits, anger still thrumming through him.

Jacob sighs, and stretches again, groaning, "Don't look so upset love, we can go we can go." He gets up and even while tired his actions are smooth and graceful. "What would Evie think of me now." He mutters, more to himself than Desmond before starting towards the door.

Desmond stares after him and has no idea what to do. Is Jacob...listening to his concerns? Desmond has no idea how to handle that or the feelings starting to bubble up past the dying embers of anger and impotent frustration. So instead he also stands up, feeling a little self conscious once he realizes he doesn't have a shirt.

It's one thing to be a stripper but being half naked around a man he likes and still doesn't quite trust is...not great.

Just as Desmond is about to go hunt Jacob down for clothes, the man himself appears, throws a pile of cloth at Desmond, and says, "Guest shower is down the hall to your left."

Desmond barely catches the garments and stares down at the pants that look more like cotton slacks, and a button up shirt, and a jacket similar in design to Jacob's own. He belatedly remembers to say "Than--oh."

Jacob's not even in the door anymore.

Shaking his head, Desmond, sniffs the clothes and then heads towards the guest bathroom. Just like Jacob said it's down the hall and to the left. Almost gratefully, Desmond strips and sinks into a quiet contemplation under the spray of warm water.

  
  


So many things have happened that Desmond isn't quite sure where the floor even is anymore, metaphorically speaking. All he does know is Jacob _listens_ to him. The man packs up the--what Desmond is starting to realize--safe-house almost as fast as Desmond is showered and changed.

"You look good in them." Jacob says when he sees Desmond. His eyes trailing over Desmond's figure.

Desmond swallows and tries for a grimace, "They are _your_ clothes."

"Exactly." Jacob smirk is smug and far too appealing. "You know how to pack away explosives and throwing knives don't you?"

"Of course I do," Slips out of Desmond's mouth before he can remember _explosives_ aren't something he wants to deal with.

"Good, then get to work, we have plenty of things to teach you, and better we know what exactly you can handle." Jacob says and then he's gone again.

Not even allowing Desmond to protest having to pack away explosives. In truth Desmond hasn't had to deal with said items in a long time, but thankfully some skills truly are muscle memory, the moment his fingers wrap around the first simplistically made Assassin-smoke bomb he checks the heft, and knows instinctively the motions that will set it off so it won't choke off his air or sight. Putting it carefully in a familiar looking bag, though this one is made of some type of leather rather than a polyester blend, Desmond...gets to work.

The smoke bombs go into a container that won't jostle them, the shrapnel grenades go into the pocket that will keep them still and has a thick outer interior incase of heavy falls or otherwise dangerous fighting won't set them off, and the normal explosives go into a similar type of pocket though made from hard leather _just incase_.

Desmond remembers all of this like a half dream rather than memory. He hadn't really needed to know the particulars of _just incase_ because he had seen the first boy to use them recklessly and without sorting them into their specific pouches. It had been a grim day and a stern lesson on explosives and caring for their equipment for _weeks_. There had been nothing left of the boy except bits of meat and organs scattered everywhere.

Once he's done Desmond carefully sets down the full sack, and searches for Jacob. And pokes around. He finds...not much actually. Either Jacob has packed up _everything_ even half the dining room chairs, or the man doesn't really live here. There aren't any creature comforts, maybe a few scuffs or well worn edges to tables or the lone two chairs one more worn then the other. A few places that Desmond is sure used to house picture frames, but they're gone now--definitely packed away considering the dust surrounding them.

"Done are you?" Jacob's voice says, behind Desmond.

Desmond jolts and swiftly turns around, "Yeah, I...uh." He swallows.

Jacob his half naked--actually probably fully naked, except for the towel around his waist. Water still drips from his head and chest hair. Desmond blames the light and water on how his muscles shine and seem more defined; his arm leaned almost casually against the door frame, his feet crossed and not a hint of shame for being under Desmond's gaze. "My eyes are up here, lad." He says when Desmond's gaze stops at Jacob's thick calves and surprisingly handsome feet.

Desmond's jerks his head up and he scuffs, "I finished the bombs, get changed." He snaps, feeling hot all over. Damn his libido and damn his eyes.

"If you're sure you don't want to enjoy the view a bit longer." Jacob winks, and then turns around.

Desmond opens his mouth, ready to snap back a reply about not wanting to see anything, but then the towel slips--it _has_ to be intentional, the man's an Assassin he's not going to mess up a simple towel knot--and there's Jacob's ass. Hairy, muscular, and damn near perfect. Desmond chokes on air and saliva and gets hard so fast he feels dizzy. Distantly he hears a low chuckle, but Desmond's a little too distracted memorizing that Ass and those Legs for later perusal and pondering.

  
  


"Where are we going exactly?" Desmond can finally look at Jacob without his mouth watering or his cock aching so painfully that he thinks a blood vessel will burst.

Jacob glances at him from the driver's side of a very nice two seated convertible. The roof is down and he's smiling again. ( _Does he ever_ stop _smiling for more than a few minutes?_ Desmond wonders) "Somewhere safer than a safe house that has no defenses. I believe the one Evie started up several dec--years ago will do nicely."

Desmond raises a brow and frowns, "Who is Evie?" He doesn't want to admit the question is tinged with a little jealousy. Especially after all the flirting and the _towel drop_.

"Jealous, love?" Jacob laughs at Desmond's sudden facial spasm. "Evie is my elusive sister. She spends most of her time dotting on her great-gre--er great grandchildren."

Desmond nods, turning away to hide any other facial expressions. He remembers being able to hold onto his emotions so well his father would yell at him for not reacting to anything properly. Here and now it's rather hard to keep it all locked up. Is it lack of proper training or because being around Jacob makes him close to insane? "That sounds nice." He offers in the stretched conversational silence. The wind feels good on his face and a much better thing to focus on then his embarrassment.

"Having a sister? It's a treat alright. She bugs me here and there, but quite the smart and diligent woman Evie is." Jacob sighs and his face and smile grow more... _real, softer_ , as if just thinking of his sister breaks down some of the Assassin mask on him. "She still thinks this is a dumb idea, but she won't stop me. At least not until I get head over heels in trouble."

"She sounds like she knows what she's talking about. I might have been trained from birth to be an Assassin but I'm nobody." Desmond shakes his head, "I don't even have any relevant information about the Farm. All my skills might be worth it if I was more than an Adept Assassin." He's never thought of his rank as more than a problem, but it shows that he has much to learn. His stealth is brilliant--enough to fool those in the Farm, but his other skills have always lacked some finesse--well, to anyone who isn't a civilian.

"And I'll tell you what I told her." Jacob says, catching Desmond's gaze, "There's something special about Desmond Miles. Something that could definitely change the world for better." With that final word, Jacob turns back to the wheel and says cheerfully, "Now how about we see how fast we can move this thing along?"

That at least isn't something Desmond has to argue about, much less _wants_ to argue about, he's always loved speed, "Go for it."

Jacob's face softens again, and it's a beautiful sight, the grin on his face, the shine in his eyes, "Aye, this will be a right treat." Then he presses his foot to the gas and the engine revs.

Cars pass by them so fast that Desmond's heart is in his throat from the start. But Jacob is _good_ , dodging cars, and swerving through the streets as if he's been driving since he was a kid. For all Desmond knows maybe he has--the Farm can't be the only place they train baby Assassin's and no matter how long Jacob's been here his accent isn't American.

"Love the feel of speed don't you? Know a real Eagle Assassin when you're like this." Jacob yells over the sound of the wind. He doesn't raise the windows or roof, and he's still grinning.

Desmond shakes his head, "You keep saying I'm something special. Eagle Senses can't be the only thing. There has to be more Assassin's with it." He doesn't really _wan_ _t_ that to be the only reason why Jacob wants him, or is interested in him.

"Aye, plenty, but none of them are as pretty as you. Or quite the right temperament or well-- _you_." Jacob points at Desmond, "You Desmond have a lot of history in your blood, but fuck the bloody pansies who think they can define you by that, you're a pretty fine Assassin, you don't just follow the footsteps of your father, and you have kept up with your training. A fine example of what you could be." He laughs, "You are _exactly_ the right type of person to be an American Assassin. Hell with your bloodline you almost have a right to it. Considering Connor."

"Who the hell is Connor?" Desmond asks, avoiding the whole---compliments. Who gives a guy that many compliments? _Someone who wants you to give them something_ is an echo of his father's voice that runs through his mind. But Jacob _has_ him, easy as pie, and it's not like Desmond knows anything--just like how the Templars shouldn't want him either.

"One of your Ancestors. First Nation blood, though," Jacob glances at Desmond, "Probably not much of it anymore, you look more like your earlier Ancestors if the pictures are right."

Which leaves Desmond stumped, "What--I don't understand." He finally says, leaning towards the side of the car where the wind is the strongest past the glass of the front.

"You will, eventually." Jacob offers no more explanation.

Desmond bites back any caustic comments, and just _breathes_. He certainly wouldn't hold his tongue back at the Farm, but damn if Jacob's information dump deserves some thought before yelling his head off.


End file.
